Eternity
by ButterflyMeadow
Summary: What is it? What is it about this smiling enthusiastic man that makes his mind cherish, yearn, and remember, his heart race, sing, and ache, all at once? His vision is clouded in red . . . DateSana, AU


**A/N: This was written for my friend's birthday, and it's actually the one-shot I'm most proud of, out of all of the other DateSana stuff I've written. I kinda went a bit overboard, but I quite liked the end result, so it's alright! I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did :)**

**Disclaimer: SenBASA is not mine.**

**Eternity**

**By Meerca aka ButterflyMeadow**

A young man walks through the class door, book bag slung over his shoulder and thumbs hooked in his pockets. Heads turn at this stranger's roguish charm, but whispers are following him for another reason entirely. He hears them clearly as he stops in front of the professor's desk—'Is that an eyepatch? What happened to his eye? He must be a delinquent—one eye_ and_ late on the first day? I'm gonna stay away from _him!_'—but he remains unfazed; after hearing the same thing so many times, it's already begun to lose its sting.

The professor, a rather effeminate man with clear blue eyes and long eyelashes, looks up at him with a smile, inquisitive behind its gentleness. "_Sorry, _uh—Uesugi-sensei." Masamune recalls the name on his schedule just in time. "The campus is pretty big, I got kinda . . . lost. It won't happen again, _promise._"

Sincere honesty does the trick, and the one-eyed man is grateful as Uesugi lets him off with just a warning; Kojuurou's lecture has been avoided, for the time being. Masamune makes a beeline for the first empty seat he sees and plops down.

"Konnichiwa! It seems that you and I shall be partners this semester! May I have your name?"

The dark-haired man chuckles at the brimming enthusiasm in the voice and decides to humor his newfound partner, turning around to greet him properly.

And then, he freezes.

Tousled russet hair tied back in a thin ponytail. A ridiculously bright red headband with long fluttering tails. A rokumonsen with six coins jangling merrily on a well-worn string. And those eyes, those round, burning, chocolate brown eyes, filled with naivety and strength and righteousness and . . .

Masamune's heart is racing; he can't find words or thoughts to express the electric adrenaline coursing through his veins, stirring his very soul and setting it ablaze. His vision blurs, and in that moment, all he sees is_ red:_ open red jacket, deadly red spears, durable red armor. The sight is odd, foreign, ancient even—yet it brings him inexplicable joy. Something about it is wonderful, familiar . . . _right._

"Gomennasai?"

The one-eyed man snaps back to reality—his heart is still pounding vehemently, but he plays it off with seeming confidence. "It's Masamune." He curses himself for sounding breathless and tries again. "Date Masamune."

"I am Sanada Genjirou Yukimura!" the brown-haired man announces with fervor, and the name makes the older man's heart ache in so many ways—with pain, with excitement, with longing, with happiness, with remembrance, and dare he say, with … "It is a pleasure to meet you, Masamune-dono! I am honored to be your most worthy partner."

The way Yukimura calls him makes his heart, already caught in this strange whirlwind of emotions, thrum again, yearning for better days, better nights: memories that only his soul had cherished, for all these centuries …

Masamune blinks hard and gives his head a quick shake—what is he even thinking about? Confusion is an understatement for his current condition, and he feels a light headache growing behind his temple. It's only the first day, he reminds himself. I can't be getting worked up about stupid shit like this.

"Sanada Genjirou Yukimura, huh?" It pleases him to say the name, as it rolls off his tongue with such ease, so smoothly, so effortlessly. He extends his hand in an offering. "_Okay._ Nice to meet ya, too, Sanada. Looks like we'll be sticking together from now on."

* * *

And stick together they do. The pair becomes fast friends—fast foes, as they challenge one another to no end, though it's all in good fun—and Masamune finds himself pleasantly surprised. He has always been guarded in his social interactions, due to his unforgettably dismal past, but Yukimura . . . he is another case entirely. The one-eyed man feels at peace around the younger one, though he still can't quite place _why—_all he knows is relief, bliss, and the frolicking beat of his heart.

"So, Masamune-dono, I converted the grams of solute into moles and then . . ."

Masamune suppresses a groan as Yukimura continues to ramble about their chemistry exam; they're going out for dinner—as _friends_, though his roommate Motochika begs to differ—to get _away_ from school stress, not let it follow them. It isn't long before the one-eyed man zones out and begins to nod mindlessly, with the occasional hum to make it seem like he's listening—he almost doesn't notice when silence settles between them.

"_You doing okay?_" Masamune asks, glancing to his side as they slow to a stop; Yukimura's stiff stance inexplicably plants seeds of worry inside him. "What, did you mess up—hey!"

All of a sudden, Yukimura darts around the corner, so fast that Masamune barely has time to see where he's going. He curses and gives chase without a second thought, weaving through pedestrians, but he pays them no mind; all he sees are those red headband tails thrashing in the wind that he can't help but follow, no matter where they may lead him.

A woman almost collides with him when he finally catches up; she is sobbing and tightly gripping her purse, but before the one-eyed man can ask her anything, she is gone, running as fast as her legs can carry her. Even without answers, however, it is clear what has transpired.

"You—_that little bitch!_"

A fist crosses his line of sight, and Masamune instinctively evades it—those early years of training never fail him—before returning the favor with interest; the attacker crumples instantly, without resistance. Before the one-eyed man realizes it, he's wearing a smirk, malicious and confident—just a single punch, and he already feels that familiar rush of adrenaline, that _excitement_ . . . His fists itch, and he flexes them—they've picked the wrong person to mess with.

"Masamune-dono!"

The call of his name brings his attention back to the reason why he'd come here in the first place, and he looks up to meet Yukimura's burning gaze. "I implore you, please, get away while you can! I can handle this myself!"

The headband-wearing man proves true to his word, deflecting a punch before whirling around for a roundhouse kick that sends an armed man crashing into the wall—it brings him a strange joy, to see the normally docile young man fight so well, so fluidly—but as Masamune wards off one of his own, he calls back, "I ain't some damsel in distress, Yukimura! I can fight just as well as you!" He flashes an audacious grin. "Maybe even better—!"

His eye widens.

There is a man behind Yukimura. There is a man, a man with a broken bottle, a man with a broken bottle raised above his head—

Suddenly, Masamune's vision blurs, and just like the first time, he sees _red_—only this time, it's distinctly different. It's liquid red, a waterfall of cascading crimson—gushing and flooding and suffocating and _heart-wrenching—_

A roar of rage tears from his throat and he lunges forward, but he isn't aware of it. Pain becomes meaningless; he doesn't feel the bottle shatter against his fist, or the face his knuckles grow raw and bloody from raining blow after blow down upon. He is consumed, consumed by some ancient unearthed heartbreak, and his thoughts are filled with a desperate mantra of, _Not again, not again, not again— _Someone shoves him, and he lets another punch fly, not caring where it goes or who it hits or doesn't—_not again, not again, not again—_but his fist, his fist won't move—

"Stop, Masamune-dono, please! You will kill him!"

His name, someone is calling his name—

"_Masamune-dono!_"

Those brown eyes are familiar, he realizes numbly. Brown, chocolate brown, widened with worry and fear—but why . . . ?

"_MASAMUNE!_"

Something snaps, and all he feels is _pain—_his hands, his wrists, his head, his very soul … everything _hurts_. A whimper escapes his lips, but he doesn't care; he needs comfort, he needs reassurance, he needs _love_, an old forsaken love that stands before him . . . His trembling arms latch around it, anchoring him to reality."Not again . . ." Masamune chokes, over and over, as he clutches Yukimura to him like a sacred lifeline—because now, he understands, at long last, he understands. "Not again . . ."

Yukimura can't remember the last time he's been so frightened. He tries to ask Masamune what's wrong, but the words are caught in his throat—why does this warmth feel so distantly familiar? He isn't hurt, but why does his heart throb to see the older man like this? It's almost as if he's felt these emotions before, somewhere . . .

"M-Masamune," Yukimura finally manages, dropping the honorific for a second time because it's already gotten him this far. He places his hands on the other's shoulders, trying to calm both of their hearts as he does so. "Your injuries, they must be treated … there is a first-aid kit in my dormitory." He gently nudges the one-eyed man in the opposite direction. "C-come, it is not far . . ."

* * *

Yukimura carefully cleans his bruised and bloodied fists with antiseptic, but Masamune barely registers the sting; all he sees, all he cares about is right in front of him. His single blue-grey eye never moves from the younger man's face—that thumping against his chest never ceases. He's still here, thank kami he's still here—

"You are fortunate that nothing is sprained or broken," Yukimura scolds, albeit halfheartedly, as he begins bandaging—truth be told, he doesn't know why he's lecturing the one-eyed man about something so trivial when the situation is so delicate. "You will still barely be able to write for at least a week—"

"_So what?_ What if that bottle had hit your head?" Masamune seethes quietly. "You know what would've happened? You would have _died._ Do you think I'd be able to live with that, Yukimura? Do you think I could forgive myself for letting it happen again?"

The length of beige cloth ends, but the warmth encompassing it doesn't. Masamune glances downward and _stares_—Yukimura's hands, resting atop his, as if it is the most natural sight in the world. It evokes _something_ within him—so stifling, so _powerful_, that it is incapable of being mistaken for anything else—

". . ._ I love you, red._"

Yukimura's eyes widen, but Masamune's heart skips a beat—he sees it. There, in the depths of those brown orbs, hidden in confusion, fleeting, veiled, but most certainly there—recognition. Deep recognition, akin to his, and he wonders if—no, he wishes that, hopes that, _prays _that—the younger man, too, has discovered the profound connection between them, as a single beloved word falls from his lips—

"Dokuganryuu . . ."

His conscious tells him to wait, but he disregards it; he's already waited, _they've_ already waited, for centuries—for their search to conclude, their pain to end, their love to reawaken—and he leans forward to finally seal their lips in a arms curl possessively around the other, pulling him that much closer, and even as the two separate to breathe, their embrace doesn't, because they've been neglected it too long—this sensation, this _intimacy_—to let go just yet.

Masamune gently kisses Yukimura's fluttering pulse before nuzzling his neck. "I've missed you, _red_."

The younger man smiles and in turn places a soft kiss against the surface of his eyepatch. "As have I, Dokuganryuu . . . it has been far too long."

* * *

"Danna, I'm back!"

Sasuke waits for a few moments, frowning at the lack of response. "Danna?" he calls again, with the same result. "Yukimura?"

The tawny-haired man reaches out to knock, only to find that the door is ajar. He quirks an eyebrow and allows himself in, about to admonish his roommate for carelessly leaving the door unlocked this late at night when his eyes fall on the bed.

It's Yukimura and that classmate of his he's grown so fond of, Masamune, entangled in one another's arms and snoring lightly. They appear to be fast asleep, and, thankfully, their clothes are untouched, which brings Sasuke some comfort. His sharp jade eyes notice Masamune's bandaged hands—he's not sure what's happened, but whatever it is, it hasn't affected the pair's slumber. He can only assume that the issue's already been resolved.

Sasuke watches them for a few moments before shaking his head and backing out of the room; he might as well go explain the situation to Motochika, especially because he won't be sleeping here tonight and knowing the other one-eyed man, he's probably worried—though, of course, he won't admit it.

Sasuke closes the door behind him with a silent sigh—a long and cold journey to the other dormitory building awaits him. But even so, as he goes on his way, he finds himself with a smile on his face.

"It took you two long enough."


End file.
